


honey chicken |

by angellwwhore



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Abuse, Anal Sex, Angst, Bad Parenting, Bottom Hinata Shouyou, Cheating, Child Neglect, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Drama, Explicit Sexual Content, Gang Rape, Gay Sex, Grooming, M/M, Multi, Past Rape/Non-con, Poetic, Porn With Plot, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pseudo-Incest, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Yandere
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:07:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25633297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angellwwhore/pseuds/angellwwhore
Summary: when kenma discovers that hinata's stepbrother has been molesting him for years, he'll stop at nothing to help shouyou escape.
Relationships: Hinata Shouyou/Kageyama Tobio, Hinata Shouyou/Kozume Kenma, Hinata Shouyou/Ushijima Wakatoshi
Comments: 104
Kudos: 387





	1. fuel the fire

**Author's Note:**

> ok LMAO so i really liked writing this im sorry the first chapter is so short it was supposed to be at least 10k but i got lazy so (;;;・_・) plus i rlly rlly rlly wanted to post this!!!!! smh my lolita aideku au is coming out soon 
> 
> [check out my twt babes](https://twitter.com/angellwwhore?s=09)

**_CHAPTER ONE: THE VAST TESTIMONIALS OF HINATA SHOUYOU_ **

At ten-years-old, Hinata Shouyou wasn’t aware that fear was a universal feeling, and not just the cries of the poor, struggling middle class. He wasn’t aware of the acute, persistent terrors that lurked within financially privileged households. He had chalked up all his fears to the monsters living under his old bed and his mother failing to pay rent - he didn’t know, he couldn’t comprehend why rich people were _scared._ Should they have monsters under their beds, they could buy a new one. Should their landlord threaten to evict them - well they wouldn’t be threatened in the first place, because they _always_ paid their rent on time.

When at the mere age of ten, Hinata Shouyou discovered his absent father - a high ranking official of a power conglomerate - wanted to meet him, and raise him. When his _wealthy_ new found father was willing to shower him with crisp, moss green bills, Hinata Shouyou felt no fear. There would be no monsters, there would be no threats of evictions. He would not be scared.

So he boarded the plane and bade his mother goodbye. (At the time, he was blissfully unaware of the reasons that forbade his mother from joining him.) He gripped his tiny bag, which only carried his bottle - he wouldn’t need it, the plane gave him complimentary apple juice - and his stuffed animal. Hinata Shouyou was not worried whatsoever. Hinata Shouyou was not scared. And this new found freedom that money carried on its heels was _euphoric._

  
  


He arrived in Tokyo at 2:03 pm. He was a fresh faced, dewey boy, who held on tightly to the straps on his polyester, yellow bag. It was old and probably smelled. But Hinata clutched onto it like his life depended on it. _He was not scared. He had no right to be._

The airport was an unknown treasure. It smelled clean, unlike the stairway of his old apartment. Everyone was dressed immaculately, and there were molten shops right beneath the floor he was standing on. Hinata savoured the new feeling. He would soon adapt to the airport. He would adapt to the cleanliness, he would adapt to the money in his pockets.

Even if he stood out now, he would fit in soon enough. Even if his trousers were ragged, even if they were the ones you could buy at flea markets for less than five dollars and even if his shirt was worn out, the printing of a cartoon giraffe fading, Hinata would be able to adapt. He was _able_ to. He was a plain boy and his clothes dragged him into the stream of people coming in and out from the airport. His sneakers made his feet sore. He should have listened to his mother and worn socks out.

Perhaps in the new, proud prefecture, there would be sneakers that already had socks sewn in them. And even if they were a little expensive, Hinata knew he could buy them. His _father_ would buy them for him. The word had been unused for ages, unless it had been to say that Hinata wasn’t privileged enough to have one. But there he was, in the Tokyo airport, waiting for his _father_ to fetch him.

He was a lucky boy. His mother had told him that. There weren’t many boys who could find their fathers. Not after they lost them.

Hinata Shouyou _was lucky_. He wasn’t afraid - and that was such a precious gift. Hinata would be okay. Even if he was in this new, big city, he would not be afraid. He wouldn’t have to be. His father - Hinata wanted to say it louder, loud enough for the whole world to know that he had a father - would be there to greet him. Would he show up in a lean, grey suit? Like the men he would see appear in his neighbour’s TV dramas? Would he be handsome - how old would he be? Would he be happy to see Shouyou - of course he would, he invited him to live in Tokyo.

Shouyou was excited to eat a meal with his father. His father would be home every night, now that they had money. He wouldn’t have to stay out till late, and dinner wouldn’t be microwavable disasters. The cheese slathered on his baked rice would be real, not gooey and faux. Maybe he would be able to invite his mother to Tokyo - his father would pay for her ticket, and they could have ramen together.

A _father_ , imagine that. Shouyou was just trembling, the built up fantasies of family dinners and going to new shops (Hinata didn’t really know what fathers did with their kids) was practically bursting. He tiptoed, trying to find a sign that read _Hinata Shouyou_ , which he promptly gave up on, due to the overwhelming height of the omnipresent adults in the airport.

He pouted, and sat on the leathery comforter behind him. He heard that businessmen were busy people. It was in the name. Perhaps his father was out on a business meeting. The thought made Hinata a little upset. That would just demolish his theory and hopes of them eating dinner together on a nightly basis.

Whatever, the ginger relented. His father would come to pick him up later. That was what fathers did. And now that he had one, he was allowed expectations. Hinata joyously sighed. This was a minor setback. His father. His dada (he heard his friend address his father as such before, although Hinata would rather not call him that.) His dad. His pa. His. Not his classmate’s, not his friend’s - his own father.

Hinata would eventually be lulled by the calm announcements made by the PA system and the tiny chatter between patrons of the airport. His eyelashes fluttered for a second. And to his own, delusional fantasies of his new father, Hinata curled up against the pillar, as time - to him, at least - slowed down.

He wasn’t scared. Not one bit.

  
  
  


He was awoken by a chilling, bony hand. Hinata was quite cold himself as the air conditioning of the airport had frozen him. His breath hitched slowly, his brown eyes adjusting to the light. His sight was greeted by a tall lady. Her cheekbones were hollow, and her eyes were sinking. The lady was fairly handsome, to tell you the truth. Hinata was enchanted by her elegant, bony features, and the flowing pencil skirt kept underneath his large coat. She didn’t look anything like the ladies in his neighbourhood. They were round and soft, and she was hardened and beautiful.

She exhaustingly fidgeted with her brown hair - it reached her shoulders - and HInata felt a little intimidated by the sight of her. She towered over his small body, and she smelt like expensive cigarettes and fancy perfume. Just like the rest of Tokyo, she was unfamiliar. Nothing like home. Nothing at all.

“Are you Shouyou?” she sighed, clearly in a state of restlessness and exhaustion. She reached out to his ginger locks, lazily running through them with her pointed nails. She frowned.

He nodded. This woman was not his father. He had no idea who she was. He bit his lip, thumb pawning at the nub of his fingers.

“Um, who are you?” he looked down at his shoes as he muttered out the question. They were dirty, caked in years of dirt. The tall lady wore stainless, polished high heels.

“Your new mother.” Hinata thought alot about the way she expressed those words - as if they were dirty, as if _he_ was dirty.

“I thought only my d-dad was coming,” Hinata stuttered. _If she was his new mother, that would mean she was his father’s wife._ The idea of that was not appealing whatsoever. She was an intruder, ruining his fantasies, stealing his hope.

“He’s,” she paused, as if the next words to come out of her mouth were vulgar slang. “ _Busy.”_ She sneered the word with such virility and harshness that Hinata let out a soft squeak. He could tell, however, that the harsh tone was not aimed directly at him. He pushed his doubts back down.

Hinata shuffled in his place, ready to ask another question, but the lady clutched his small hands tightly - her palm was large, larger than his mother’s - and pulled him along. She clicked her tongue when Hinata slightly tripped - his short legs unable to keep up with hers.

Hinata was not scared. She would bring him to his new home. She would be his pathway into his new, _better,_ life. She was to be his new mother. Hinata would not complain, because he was _not_ worried. He was ready.

She led him to a black vehicle, and inside it was spotless - just like his new mother, just like the airport. The car smelled like alcohol wipes and a foggy, overly clean scent. Hinata didn’t like it at all. He fidgeted in his seat, feeling as if the air in the car was stale.

“Where to, Madame?” The chauffeur - Hinata had never met one before, he hadn’t even been in a private vehicle before - asked.

“Home, Ryo,” she sighed. She sighed a lot, Hinata thought. She seemed kind of solemn, as if she had come back from a funeral. Hinata wondered why.

The car ride was quiet. It wasn’t unnerving, just a sort of pregnant silence that he felt shouldn’t be broken. He spent his time sipping from his bottle and sifting through little compartments at his side. He gazed through the windows as they passed by brightly lit high-rise buildings and crowds of people, through the lush green area and watched as the loud atmosphere died down as they drove even further.

The lady stayed silent. She occasionally lit a cigarette. Hinata thought it smelled awful. It was a charred sort of scent, like it was burning ashes. It was like she inhaled a recently cremated person. Hinata dared not say a thing. His stepmother seemed almost shaken. Her fingers trembled slightly as she picked her lighter up. It didn’t scare Hinata. It didn’t.

She took a long drag from his cigarette. “Shouyou?” she said in a soft voice, much softer than the one that she had used in the airport. He looked up to her, surprised by her sudden attempt for a conversation. The lady shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Uh, don’t be _too_ disappointed by your father.”

Hinata frowned. What would he be disappointed by? Sure, his father didn’t come to pick him up, but that was just because he was busy. It wasn’t that big of a deal. He knew, instinctively, that his father would never disappoint him.

“I don’t think he’ll disappoint me, though,” he answered, aimlessly cheerful.

She had an amused expression on her face. It was almost as if she was scoffing at the boy’s naivete. She went back to her cigarette, and the car was filled with silence once more.

  
  
  


He learnt from his stepmother that _their_ new home was located in the central business district in Tokyo. It was a hefty penthouse, and the apartment block was magnificent. It was luxurious, all marbled. And much like the rest of his new life, it was impossibly clean. He had seen buildings like this around town, but he had never been in one. He could never afford to be in one.

So, as his squeaky shoes crossed the carpeted floor, Hinata Shouyou was not scared. His new home was supported with marble pillars that had gold innings, and had a front desk. The building smelled of mint and green tea. Ferns and assortments of fresh plants coated the bashful area. Hinata wondered if there would be a pool.

His stepmother led him to an elevator, past the front desk, past the countless glass doors and windows, past the debris of pants - Hinata tried his best to ingrain every single corner of his new home into his mind.

Even the elevator was classy and fantastical. He was surrounded by four mirrors, all of which were lined with gold. The floor he stood on was carpeted, but not the kind of itchy, fuzzy carpet - it looked soft and smooth and Hinata couldn’t find a single speck of dirt on it.

The buttons on the lift were shiny and hard, and the numbers went up to 36. _36 floors._ He had never been in a building this tall. The lady accompanying pressed on number 36. He was going to live somewhere so high up, he would probably be able to touch the sky. Hinata smiled.

When they arrived on the floor, Hinata was astounded by the large black door with an electronic lock. The name _Ushijima_ was engraved on a gold plate and it hung beside the humongous door. Even the doorbell was too high up for him.

The lady casually slipped a card between the lock, and it automatically gave way to the huge household. Hinata was once again, amazed by the small trick. He was unaware, innocent and blinded by the vast sea of riches.

His new home was a modern comfort, with sheer marble walls and marbled floor, and glass windows that exposed the skyline of Tokyo. Hinata was enamoured by the brilliant sky and the shining furniture. Every single bit of his new home was immaculate, all of it spotless - it felt like it had been just bought, like it was unused and empty. There were no hints that anyone lived there, aside from a few unfinished meals lying on the table.

It was cold. But Hinata didn’t want to focus on that. He had never lived somewhere so big. Somewhere so impossible. But there he was. And he was not scared.

  
  
  


When Hinata Shouyou met Ushijima Wakatoshi, it was utterly disappointing. Only for the reason that Wakatoshi was not just a person, he was a _confirmation_ . He was a _killer_ of dreams, well at least to a much younger Hinata.

Wakatoshi was his father’s son. His _other_ son, Hinata had bitterly thought when he learnt of the information. He had never met his father, but he had conjured up a delightful fantasy of a doting father and an ideal family life. Where no one else was involved. Not his stepmother and especially not a recently discovered stepbrother.

But this was not the worst thing that Ushijima brought with him. Hinata learnt that Ushijima was _thirteen._ This wouldn’t have affected Hinata too much. But it absolutely ruined him when he realised his stepmother was the biological and lawful mother of his half-brother.

Thirteen. That meant he was three years older than Hinata. He had been born earlier than Hinata. Now Hinata was naive, but he wasn’t stupid. He was aware that when a mystery son, born from another mother - another wife - appeared, it usually meant that his father had not been very loyal. Especially if his new son was significantly younger than his eldest.

Hinata did not want to ever think about it. Not a single bit. He didn’t want to come to the objective conclusion that he was indeed, a child born out of an affair. Nevertheless, it was a logical answer.

Hinata refused to believe it. He refused to accept that he had been the one imposing on Wakatoshi’s family. He did not want to be an illegitimate child. He did not want to be the black sheep of a wholly different family. But he _was._

Wakatoshi was not - he had never been - the _intruder_ . It was _Hinata_ . _Hinata_ whose mother had interfered with a marriage, _Hinata’s_ mother who had given birth to a bastard child, and _Hinata_ who was not actually a part of their family. Of course, Shouyou decided not to deeply indulge in these melancholic thoughts.

Instead, he would completely ignore any and all claims that this would be the case. After all, denial was a classic trait of the Ushijima household. And _Shouyou_ would do his absolute best to adapt.

  
  
  


It was difficult for anyone to realise that Wakatoshi and Shouyou were related. At first, Shouyou himself couldn’t believe that Wakatoshi was his brother. From the increments of their ankles to their eye colour, they were nothing alike. Wakatoshi was tanned - Shouyou assumed that this was due to their father’s genes, because his mother was deathly pale - and he was horribly tall. Much like his mother, he towered over everyone, and with Shouyou at a measly 4’5, he was forced to constantly look up at his stepbrother.

Wakatoshi was incredibly masculine, no one could doubt that. Perhaps it was due to him hitting puberty rather early on, but the boy looked far older than he actually was. Shouyou had been mistaken for a girl multiple times as a toddler. And even at ten, he was unable to deny his round, girlish appearance. He was pale and his hair was curly, unruly and untameable. Compared to Wakatoshi’s perfectly combed and silky locks.

Shouyou would be forced to hang around Wakatoshi to avoid any sort of loneliness, considering their mother would rarely ever be home. And it would take two months for Shouyou to actually meet his real father.

And while Shouyou had been upset, and _disappointed_ by the wait, Wakatoshi seemed accustomed to the long weeks. Shouyou didn’t want to know why.

His room was a place that Shouyou routinely visited. After all, he had nowhere else to go. Shouyou hung around for hours on end, sometimes barely even breathing a word to the older boy. Wakatoshi was used to Shouyou’s ever present nature, and didn’t mind his younger brother intruding on his personal space.

Shouyou never really understood Wakatoshi, but he didn’t mind that fact. He wasn’t necessarily happy to have him around, but he grew comfortable around him.

“You shouldn’t let the kids at school call you Hinata,” Wakatoshi had told him once. The older boy lay on his bed, as Shouyou sat on the floor, investigating the contents of Wakatoshi’s cabinets.

It was a Saturday, and Shouyou flipped through the weirdly untouched comics that lined Wakatoshi’s bookshelf. Oddly enough, the comics had nothing in common, as if Wakatoshi had picked them from convenience store shelves at random, and they seemed so clean. Like they were freshly printed. Shouyou often theorised that Wakatoshi only kept them as decorative pieces.

The ginger snorted lightly, not looking up from the latest Shonen Jump release. “Everyone calls me that,” he said thoughtlessly. He had been introducing himself as Hinata Shouyou for the past ten years, and _Ushijima Shouyou_ sounded unfamiliar and ugly. If that made any sense.

“Well, they shouldn’t,” Wakatoshi leaned down towards his younger brother. His eyes were intently focused on Shouyou. It was normal. Shouyou just brushed it off as him being an observant kid. “You’re part of our family now.”

“Oh,” Shouyou meekly said, uninterested with where the conversation would lead. After weeks of living with the family, it occurred to him that they were nothing like any sort of normal family. Their parents would leave - he hadn’t even _met his own father_ yet - for weeks on end. His stepmother was always busy, and Shouyou could count the number of times she had come home for dinner on one hand.

Truth be told, even without Shouyou there, the family didn’t even seem like a family. The house was constantly empty, with the exception of the two boys and perhaps the daily cleaner. He wondered how Wakatoshi was able to survive in such a lonesome environment.

Shouyou dared not say it out loud. Because he didn’t regret coming to Tokyo. His daily meals were nice and if they wanted, they could order food. He had a really nice bed to stay in. And he always had the latest things. Money was never an issue.

So what was? Shouyou had never seemed to consider that there were other pressing issues. Money was always the most important one. And now that he had it, he couldn’t seem to identify the odd, empty feeling he got as he stared at impeccably placed family portraits.

“I’m sorry _our_ parents aren’t home often,” Wakatoshi consoled Shouyou.

Shouyou found it odd that Wakatoshi had easily accepted him into their family. When they first met, Wakatoshi had no qualms with accepting Shouyou. He had nothing sinister to say to him. And even if he was a sensible, mature boy, Shouyou found it hard to believe that Wakatoshi wasn’t the least bit angry that this stranger was imposing on him and his family.

A part of him did not trust Wakatoshi at all. Shouyou wasn’t a mind reader, he never prided himself on his ability to read people, but he could not understand Wakatoshi at all. The boy treated him as if he had been a part of their family since the beginning.

As if he was actually his brother. Whenever he hung out with Wakatoshi, he felt an eerie sort of feeling, but then again, Shouyou didn’t know what had caused it. So he eased the feeling in, and continued to stay near his stepbrother.

“ ‘S not a big deal,” Shouyou mumbled. Back in Miyagi, his mother had been just as busy. But for some reason, in Tokyo, the empty feeling only grew more fervent.

“You can talk to me about anything, y’know,” Wakatoshi replied. Shouyou fidgeted uncomfortably. He barely knew the tan boy. At best, he was like the classmate you were always paired up with, at worst - well, he was a _stranger._

“I guess,” Shouyou shrugged. He had never been this quiet in Miyagi. But for some reason, he knew instinctively that Wakatoshi was someone he’d prefer not to interact with.

“You should call me Onii-chan,” Wakatoshi continued. “It’s more polite that way.” Shouyou frowned.

“Only girls use Onii-chan,” he peeked up from his comic, to face the taller boy, whose gaze was fixated on him.

“Huh.”

“And it’s not like you’re my real brother,” Shouyou rebuffed. Wakatoshi looked almost distressed as he heard those words.

“I am,” Wakatoshi obstinately states. “Biologically, we’re half brothers.”

Shouyou wondered why he was so adamant about them being brothers. “Yeah, but I’ve known you for a couple of weeks.”

“You’re still my brother.”

“I dunno,” Shouyou shrugs. “You’re not like my friends’ brothers back in Miyagi.”

“Hmm?”

“They’re really mean to their little brothers,” Shouyou said, slowly drifting his gaze back to his comics. “But they’re still really close with each other. You’re just _distant._ ”

“How am I distant when I’m right next to you?” Wakatoshi brought up,

“That’s not what I meant,” Shouyou whined. “You don’t feel like _family.”_ Family was a big word.

“How?” Wakatoshi curiously pondered. Shouyou did not notice at the time, but there was a hint of irritation that laced his tone.

“Your mom and dad aren’t home. Like at all,” he managed to say. “And we don’t do what normal families do.” He referred to the obvious neglect that Shouyou had an apprehensive look on his face, slightly afraid of Wakatoshi’s response.

“Why do _they_ have to be a part of _our_ family?” Wakatoshi suggested. He pushed Shouyou’s bangs back, peering at his doe eyes. “ _We_ can be our own family.”

Shouyou didn’t reply, unsure of what to even say. He didn’t understand much about what Wakatoshi had just told him. But like any other ten-year old, Shouyou was engulfed once more in the idea of a _family._ So he nodded, accepting his step brother's meagre words.

  
  


From that day onwards, Wakatoshi became significantly more affectionate with Shouyou. It started small, like a pat on the head or the ruffling of golden orange curls. Like he approved of Shouyou’s choice. Shouyou’s allegiance to Wakatoshi. Shouyou was too young and naive to see it. But eventually he would piece it together.

From his occasional pats on the head, Wakatoshi would extend his gaze to making breakfast for Shouyou. Unlike the rare touches, this was an often occurrence. Their housekeeper would come in the afternoon and leave by the time they finished dinner. It was up to the two boys to cook their morning meals. It helped that Wakatoshi could make some decent miso soup. It convinced Shouyou of Wakatoshi’s caring nature, especially with the housekeeper’s lack of presence. 

Their breakfasts together became more flavourful, with each conversation progressing in length and energy. Wakatoshi seemed to keep pushing the idea that the two of them would be their own family, away from any other distraction, or any other person. He disliked it when Shouyou brought up his parents. And enjoyed when Shouyou rambled on about his school life, listening like an attentive mother.

Shouyou found Wakatoshi’s presence becoming more and more comforting, and he lost his initial wariness of his stepbrother. Aside from Wakatoshi’s slightly odd comments that he would occasionally make (“Don’t trust your friends too much. They’ll leave eventually.” Followed by a, “I'll never leave, though. So trust me.”) Shouyou enjoyed Wakatoshi’s company.

In their desolate little palace, they would have no one else but each other. Shouyou kept the thought at the back of his mind. He wasn’t scared of Wakatoshi. Not a single bit.

  
  


It had been a month since Shouyou came to the apartment complex. He had familiarised himself with the train routes to take, the convenience stores around his neighbourhood, and memorised all the names of the staff at the concierge. He had told his online friends that his home was in Tokyo and not Miyagi. So safe to say, Shouyou was comfortable in the prefecture.

Monday. Shouyou, like any other ten-year-old, disliked the day. Not for any particular reason, though he would eventually come to have one. He was in an above average mood. Due to the fact that for the first time, he had woken up before Wakatoshi. The ginger didn’t bother to wake up his older brother, Wakatoshi could do it by himself.

He didn’t hurry, he had enough time for a shower and to make himself a snack. He shuffled his feet to the bathroom, towel and uniform in hand. He entered the lavish room, stripped down and turned on the shower head. As droplets of lukewarm water slipped down his small body, he pumped a good dollop of shampoo. It was a pity that he had forgotten to ask their housekeeper to buy one catered to his hair type. This one made his already unruly locks stand up even more.

Shouyou ran his short fingers through the entangled bridges of his hair, trying his best to comb them thoroughly. His head was slathered in white foam as he proceeded to wash and soap his body. He tiptoed to grab at the shower head. Wakatoshi always left it at such a high spot.

As he doused himself in water, he heard the unlocking of a door. _Wakatoshi_ , he thought. He continued to bathe himself; a heavy drizzle of water left him unaware of the bathroom door opening.

Wakatoshi peered at the nude figure of his younger brother and grunted to unveil his presence. Shouyou shivered. He didn’t know his brother had come in. He turned to face Wakatoshi, flustered from his sudden disturbance.

“Toshi?” he mustered.

“What do you want for breakfast?” Blunt, per usual.

“You could’ve just shouted for me,” Shouyou huffed, slicking back wet locks.

“We’ve got leftover fried rice from dinner. Unless you want something sweet,” he offered.

“Do we still have the lucky charms?” he suggested.

“I’ll go check,” Wakatoshi nodded, leaving the room and the door ajar.

Shouyou frowned at the older boy’s careless mistake and shut the door. He immersed himself back into the shower, still sure and confident that Wakatoshi was a good brother.

As he trotted down the circular flight of stairs, he peered down at the steaming bowl of fried rice and a half filled bento box on the counter. A toasty pepper scent wafted through the air that led him to Wakatoshi frying a couple of egg rolls.

“Toshi! Don’t add too much salt!” Shouyou advised, recalling the last time that Wakatoshi had tried his hands at cooking them. His brother nodded.

He didn’t know what Wakatoshi was thinking most of the time. The older boy was blunt - not honest - when he was asked or felt the need to add his input, but he stayed rather quiet most of the time. It didn’t phase Shouyou as much as it used to, though.

Shouyou sat around the countertops, as Wakatoshi finished up the last egg roll and placed it in his lunchbox. He ate the almost flavourless fried rice - the housekeeper had no qualms with forgetting to put in seasoning in their meals. He looked back up at his older brother. Wakatoshi’s cooking wasn’t a gourmet masterpiece. But it was pretty decent, considering that the boy had just passed thirteen. Shouyou would rather have Wakatoshi cook for him.

Unfortunately, Wakatoshi would come home at a much later time than Shouyou for all days except probably Fridays. He’d be out for volleyball practice, a sport that Shouyou knew close to nothing about. He thought it was cool. That Wakatoshi was a capable older brother. He assumed that Wakatoshi had to be at least pretty good at what he did. Because Wakatoshi would mention that he was in fact, a starter, here and there.

Shouyou mulled it over spoonfuls of rice. “Do you have a girlfriend, Toshi?” he asked. Wakatoshi probably did, after all - he _was_ remarkably handsome and capable.

He could see the shock pummel at Wakatoshi, as the boy choked. “N-no, Sho,” he yelled obstinately.

“Realllllly?” Shouyou curled his lips. He doubted his brother’s words. “You look like the kind of guy to have loads of girls chasing after you, though.”

“I guess,” Wakatoshi had calmed down. “Uh, I don’t really need one.”

Shouyou raised an eyebrow. “How come?”

“You’re so nosy,” he replied.

“ _Nii-san_ ,” he whined. “Tell me!” The formality had become a way to ease Wakatoshi into Shouyou’s wishes. He became aware of it when Wakatoshi had bought him the entire collection of a manga after he accidentally let the words slip out of his mouth.

The older muttered something inaudible under his breath. “I have you, Sho, I don’t have time for a girlfriend,” he mustered.

“You sound like an old man,” Shouyou giggled.

“ _You_ better not get any girlfriends,” Wakatoshi warned, slipping his apron back into a drawer. He sat down next to Shouyou.

“Would you be jelly if I did?”

“You’re _ten._ ”

“I don’t like any of the girls in my school, anyway,” Shouyou huffed.

“You don’t even need a girlfriend.” Wakatoshi sighed. “I’ll always be with you. You don’t need to worry about anything.” Sometimes he would say these odd things. Shouyou didn’t really get what Wakatoshi meant.

“Okay,” Shouyou smiled. “You’re a really good brother, Toshi!”

  
  
  


Sparkling water and grape flavoured yoghurt drinks. Designer brands and three dollar bargain bin rags. Fifty dollar steaks and convenience store bentos. Shouyou wasn’t stupid - he knew there was a stark difference between the extravagantly dressed and the ones who barely missed their train to poverty. Nothing was the same. From the way they talked to the emotions they felt.

Shouyou was aware of these unspoken differences - after all, why else would he move to Tokyo?

  
  


On the day that he was supposed to meet his father, Wakatoshi was nowhere to be seen. His breakfast had been prepared for him. He ate alone in silence. He didn’t quite understand the reasons for which he had been left alone, but he accepted it. Shouyou had the whole house to himself.

Within the marble walls, he walked around aimlessly, without anyone to talk to. He texted Wakatoshi a couple of times, wondering where he had gone. Without any reply, he was left to assume that his older brother had volleyball practice, nothing new.

He should have been bouncing around with joy. He should have been overwhelmed by a wave of impossible excitement. But as he watched the clock tick by, as he waited for the hours when he would have to leave to meet his father, Shouyou was _bored._ His own impression of his father had been tainted by his absence.

Perhaps he was disappointed. Disappointed that his father had not been the one to pick him up at the airport. Disappointed that his father created Shouyou as a result of an affair. But Shouyou didn't mind his disappointment too much.

Because he _knew_ his father would not be scared. And that would be enough to keep him hoping.

  
  
  


His hands trembled. They gripped shakily onto a wine glass. His eyes avoided Shouyou. His father was a horrifying sight - a brutish middle aged man with slicked back locks and hunky features. He looked exactly like Wakatoshi, albeit a few grey hairs among the stubble. But his elder appearance was not what petrified Shouyou. It was much more than that.

Ushijima Yotoka was a man struggling with his own undesirable fear. From his parental ache, to his familial bonds and the strings that had once connected them loosening. He was a quivering mess, constantly biting his lips and playing with his fingers.

Even in front of his new son, he was unable to conjure a smooth, businessman and resorted to his only tactic - his undeniably, pathetic self. Scared and lost, unwilling and hateful, bland and boring. Yotoka did not have it in him to fake it.

He was aged - and though he was just forty, he looked to be ten years older. Aged from the affair, mostly. Tired and dull from the fear resonating in his heart that never seemed to leave him be.

It did hurt, it hurt so much, and he was a weary man. He was almost _too aware_ that his very presence would completely disenchant Hinata Okada's son. But what could he do? A failure of a husband, failure of a father.

He had proposed for such a weak, inane idea. It really was the least he could do. It ached on his conscience - but his mistakes would not mend themselves. Then again, who was to say that he would ever be able to help himself?

  
  
  


Ushijima Yotoka was like his son - a killer of dreams. Just like Wakatoshi, from their sharp, vulgar eyes to their insane ability to disappoint Shouyou. But unlike his son, Yotoka burned Shouyou. He scarred him, left him with such heinous, hideous scars, and Shouyou could not do a _thing_ about them.

It was horrible, to see a man like Yotoka sit in front of him, in his aged sadness and washed out exterior. Lost on his own self and mercilessly abused by an unknown power. Shouyou did not _like_ that his father was weak.

Not even weak, but _afraid_. Afraid to look him in the eyes and face him the same way Wakatoshi would. He was in ruins - ruined from his own fear trampling and crushing him with all its might.

Was that his father? Was that the man who had promised him a life of fear in the outskirts of Tokyo? Shouyou refused to believe it. He chose this lifestyle to be brave, to be unafraid.

Yotoka was _terrified._

  
  


"Why aren't you home?"

_Are you afraid to look at me? Afraid to see the boy you birthed, the boy you made, look at me. Look at me. Look at your son, you coward._

"I'm very busy at the moment," he answered, so coolly, but his face betrayed him. His watery eyes and horrid eyebags. His twitching hands.

_Shouyou did not want to see him._

"What about Mrs. Ushijima?"

No one told Shouyou about her. Wakatoshi himself dare not mention her. Whenever Shouyou asked him about her, he sneered - not in Shouyou's direction, but a metaphorical one.Almost as if he hated her.

"She's receiving treatment."

"For what?"

"She's sick right now. Don't be afraid, she'll come back soon."

_COWARD. COWARD. COWARD. COWARD._

Shouyou wasn't afraid. Yotoka was the one who was shamelessly terrified by his own son. Terrified by a mere child who barely reached his hips.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


"I wanna go home."

"That's alright. I'll call my chauffeur."

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Their short lived conversation and ever shorter dinner - there was half a steak left. He had not finished his sweet coke, nor had he stayed to have dessert. He went home, alone in a car, disappointed.

A little afraid.

But at least Wakatoshi was brave.

  
  
  


"I don't like dad," Shouyou whispered, crawling under the covers next to the older boy. His small body fit nicely next to the much larger body beside him.

He had decidedly spent his night in Wakatoshi's room, waiting for his brother to come back home. Restless as he watched the older boy arrive and sink into his bed, while snuggling into the space next to him.

The dinner had been awful. Wakatoshi's meals tasted warmer. He liked konbini drinks over overpriced sparkling water. And he liked the younger Ushijima over Yokota.

So warm, and fit next to the developed muscles and musky scent. Nothing like the cold icy carpet or the silk table dressing. Nothing at all like the disappointment he felt.

"I'm sorry he disappointed you, Sho," Ushijima sighed, rubbing circles on Shouyou's back. His hands were large. They comforted Shouyou as he dove into Wakatoshi's ample amount of chest.

Shouyou felt at peace in the arms of the thirteen-year-old. Like he belonged there. Belonged perfectly in Wakatoshi's embrace, under the baritone night sky, just the two of them.

"It's okay," Shouyou huffed, biting his lip. He clung to Wakatoshi - a small body plastered onto the muscular piece underneath him. "I don't need him."

"We don't need him," Wakatoshi corrected as he breathed in small whiffs of the vanilla scent that enveloped Shouyou's form.

"We can be our own family," Wakatoshi repeated, giving a smouldering glance to Shouyou.

"Love you, nii-chan."

  
  
  
  


The terrible meeting between Yotoka and his second son had only managed to strengthen the bond between the brothers - their affection for each other extending to soft kisses on their cheeks and holding hands. Their doting relationship would not go unnoticed, with a great many of Shouyou's friends commenting on how Wakatoshi was unbelievably possessive over the younger boy.

"Be careful, Sho," Wakatoshi murmured through a soft kiss with Shouyou at the school gate. He ruffled the elementary schooler's hair, eventually releasing him from his grasp, to head for his own school.

"Bye bye, Nii-chan!" he called after his brother, waving brightly at the dissipating figure.

The boy next to Shouyou scrunched his nose, annoyed and confused by their exchange. He had lead black hair, with expressive blue eyes that bled into one's soul. His name was Kageyama Tobio - and he was Shouyou's first friend in Tokyo.

"Mom says that mouth kisses are only for special people," he preached, eyeing the ginger who stood barely centimetres beneath him.

"Nii-chan _is_ special!" Shouyou insisted, pulling on his new red bag (Wakatoshi had bought it for him last Sunday).

"But he's family. Mom says mouth kisses aren't for family," Kageyama frowned, arms crossed and brows furrowed.

In their first month or so of friendship, Hinata didn't bother to even talk about his brother. Not once did he mention the older boy. It was weird seeing the eleven-year-old suddenly cling to Wakatoshi. His behaviour seemed to come out of nowhere.

"Do _you_ want a mouth kiss, Yama? Is that why you're so upset?" Shouyou cheekily grinned, huge eyes glaring so feverishly at Kageyama's flushed face.

"No, dumbass!" His face was awfully red, and his eyes avoided the large eyes that seemed to follow him.

"Eh! That's a bad word!" Shouyou gasped, flicking Tobio's forehead.

"My cousin says it a lot," Kageyama defended himself, pushing the ginger's hand away "And you totally _are_ a dumbass."

"You're a big, fat meanie!" Shouyou cried.

"How am _I_ the fat one here? You're the one with the huge ass," he giggled, poking the fat tugging at Shouyou's shorts.

"Nii-chan says it's fine!"

"Only girls are supposed to have big butts," a lanky little junior interrupted their conversation. He was a blonde boy, with thick rimmed glasses.

Tsukishima was a tall boy with a permanent sneer on his face. Dressed in his usual baggy trousers - he was much too skinny to fit into a smaller size - and a Jurassic Park shirt. He must have worn it for every day of the week.

"You're right," Kageyama nodded. "Ushijima- _san_ totally looks like a girl!"

"I _do not_!"

"He's not wrong, chibi. You're practically a woman with that face," the blond boy chuckled darkly.

In his defence, Shouyou did have a girlish face. Especially considering he was at the age where clear gender features had not yet been established and the only defining masculine feature would be a boyish haircut. It didn't help that Wakatoshi had let Shouyou's curls grow out. 

"I hate you, Meanieshima!" Shouyou kicked Tsukishima's ankle, as the blond scoffed. His small shoes squeaked as his feet strike his legs.

"It doesn't hurt at all, you know," he smirked. He was way too tall, towering over both the boys, which only led to his _slightly_ intimidating exterior.

"Is meanie the only word you know?" Kageyama remarked, fussing with the orange locks between his fingers. He liked playing with Shouyou's hair - it was unusually soft and fuzzy.

"You guys are ganging up on me! This isn't fair," he whined, pouting and shoving away Kageyama's prying hands. "Where's Yamaguchi?"

"He's sick," Tsukishima sighed. 

"Who're you gonna sit with during recess?" Shouyou asked as Kageyama fit his hand into the smaller boy's. They would hold hands often - a habit they picked up from the previous year's buddy system.

The four of them were a group, made of two pairs. Tsukishima and Yamaguchi had been together since they were two, and Shouyou couldn't imagine seeing Tsukishima being with anyone else.

"I'll have to sit with that weird new kid," Tsukishima moaned. "He's always on his gameboy."

"What's his name?" Shouyou smiled.

"Ken? Ken-something," Kageyama replied.

"He's the one who looks like a cat right?" Shouyou nodded. "He's super pretty!"

"That's rich coming from you," Tsukishima snorted. He took a look at his watch. "Now shut up, we're gonna be late."

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


When he first held Kenma's hand, he had wondered if anyone else had been given the privilege of holding his soft palm. It was cold, like it had never been touched. As if Shouyou was the first person to clasp his clammy hands.

"Sensei says it's really cold outside, so we should hold hands," he murmured, a visible puff of air fading back into the surroundings as he spoke.

He sat against the back of his chair, facing a brunette boy whose gaze was stuck to the device in his hands. Shouyou would look back at Kenma during class, and he thought that the thin boy looked much like the auntie that made him cream buns back in Miyagi.

He missed her. Missed the soft, sweet dollops of cream that he enjoyed diving into. Shouyou could still taste the sweet bread pushing back and forth by his tongue in his mouth.

Kenma's eyes were just like hers.

"I've got gloves," Kenma replied, still working on the level that he was unable to pass. He wondered why the ginger was talking to him.

"Holding hands is way better though," Shouyou pursed his lips. "Me and Yama do it all the time! It's super nice and warm!"

"Where's Yama?"

"He's at home sick," Shouyou said, tone neutral.

Kenma raised his brow. "So you've got no one else to talk to?"

"Nuh-uh, I really wanted to talk to you! Yama doesn't want me to talk to anyone but him, though," Shouyou gleefully said, lowering his head to meet Kenma's eyes.

"Huh," Kenma muttered, unaware of how to respond. _Yama_ must have been a possessive little prick. 

"You don't wanna hold hands?" Shouyou mumbled, with his mighty doe eyes staring up at Kenma's delicate exterior.

"I don't mind," Kenma answered.

Shouyou reached out for his palm, with his small fingers spread wide and the brilliant smile on his face that blinded Kenma. The brunette let his fingers fall back onto Shouyou's hand. Kenma's palm was chilly, Shouyou thought he might freeze.

"Why is your hand so cold?"

"Dunno."

"Nii-chan says that cold hands aren't a good sign of health," Shouyou preached, in an endearingly simplistic manner. "We should hold hands for longer!" He grinned, tilting his head to look at Kenma - with his fingers gripping loosely at Kenma's elongated hand.

He was an unknowingly flirtatious boy, made of giggles and subtle hits. Kenma flushed a deep red, slowly tightening his grip on the boy. “Your hand is tiny,” he blurted out, flustered from Shouyou’s deepening gaze. Shouyou’s hand was incredulously small, with short stubby fingers and a soft, tiny palm.

“Your fingers are super long,” Shouyou murmured, raising the two intertwined hands up to his eye level. Kenma reached for the boy’s full head of ginger curls, petting the fluffy tuft.

“Your hair is soft,” he remarked, stroking the long locks. Shouyou had a wide grin on his face, dazzling, white teeth blaring at Kenma.

“Your eyes are pretty,” he replied, continuing their string of compliments. He looked pointedly at Kenma’s elegant slits and thick lashes. He liked the way Kenma's eyes were precariously hooded.

"You're pretty," Kenma tucks back a lock of Shouyou's hair.

And in that moment, everything changes.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. downfall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long im TRASH anyway toshi x theatrics and denial

Ushijima Wakatoshi

DOB: 13/08/90

Tokyo-East, a morning in May. I'm forced to come to terms with my parent's failed marriage. Barely 13, and on the tide of puberty, I'm left simply  _ unable  _ to contain my rage when a ginger boy shows up on the doorstep of my family home. He stands at exactly 4 foot 5, and carries along the shame of my father's affair. [I doubt he is even aware of the events that have taken place to bring him here.]  _ Hinata Shouyou _ , my mother informs me, is my brother, and only ten. The boy is so curious, so very excited to peek at the innards of my family's dastardly home. I say, with great distress, "Why is he here?"

My mother pinches my arm and I bite my lip - it's hot and it feels languid. Unsightly boy. He's a ruffled maniac, who is shamelessly trespassing through my home, and I am forced to stay as quiet as possible.  _ Who is Hinata Shouyou _ ? My brother, my companion, the boy who has ruined my family. The room has seemed to zone in on him, and I'm left impossibly marked. Shouyou - you see, my parents have not been  _ okay  _ for quite some time. 

My parents, sick and split, both avoid each other like the plague. And they are the ones who have brought me into this world and I'm left to pick up the pieces that they have irresponsibly left behind. Indeed, what's a boy to do? Not much, one can assume. Quite correct - helpless and hauntly, cool and peckish. I am all of the above and drowning in whatever's below. 

Perhaps this is the first time my mother has come home in 6 weeks. Unapologetically so.  _ Blame it on your father _ , she says in her head. My apologies, mama, but I can only, truly despise this ginger fool. 

I believe it's Freudian who has said: a child is not born with a personality, moralities and the rest, but those are things that are created along the way as the child grows. I didn't hate Hinata from birth (he hadn't even been born yet), but as I come to know the details of my father's inequital affairs, he's another player in the game that my father has set up. 

Like any good debater, I will explore an example to illustrate my point: Shouyou, who is a living piece of evidence that my father has been having a number of affairs over the years. The very bad part: he exists and he cannot be erased. Now my mother, who is simply  _ forced  _ to come and see the picture: [my father, a lusty moron, who has slept with women all over Japan]. And he has birthed his very own child — a child who is not my mother's.

You can imagine my mother's fury, and my father's unwillingness to forget about his last (?) living babe. And all of it - my happy, gratuitous family ideal, it burns up in flames, flames that are the same colour as Shouyou's hair. 

I shall not go into the details of my parents' falling out, but it is safe to say that the two drifted apart, and they did so by leaving me all alone. And there Shouyou stands, he stands as if he is not the culprit of all that has befallen me. And as a fellow boy, as his fellow brother-in-arms, I  _ abhor  _ him.

And how I hate him, how I feel my face getting hot with frustration and eyes boiling with sublime, subtle tears. A boy in every way, a sickening, naive, tepid, child who is mine to behold and mine to despise.  _ Nein _ . It's not  _ Shouyou _ whom I so very fervently despise, it is  _ Shouyou, bastard child of my father,  _ whom I have projected my hate unto. It isn't too hard to understand, he, who has ruined my life, comes face-to-face with me. And knows nothing of the destruction he's caused. 

Has there ever been a dumber boy? A donkey, a dunce, a blaringly fastidious  _ idiot.  _ The utter  _ bane  _ of my merry existence. Must I be forced to look at him? His sunshine demeanour, his depleting growth, and that  _ god awful,  _ shining smile of his? Will I be forced into suppression? 

No, no, no. Not me, not  _ Ushijima Wakatoshi _ . Not at the hands of simple, country boy Shouyou. Country bumpkin, lascivious proprietor, Shouyou sunny shall not be the boy who turns me in. Not till I see that smug, untimely grin of his disappear from the very face of this planet. 

Now I shall say this again: this boy, this vulgar atrocity, has no right [none, none at all] to strike himself into my stratosphere. Rather, he belongs in another galaxy, a galaxy by the mountains and the complacent fools. But not mine, never mine, never again, in fact. Who was it, again, that destroyed my life before it could even begin?

The sun, the burning, hot sun; Icarus with his cool wings; sombre father, who longs after his son. You are the sun, I am kind, but foolish Icarus and I do wish my father would match up with his analogical partner. But nevertheless, you have managed to cross the barriers of incessant, poor folk, to maniacally rich bandits. And I refuse - I revoke all your pity statements. Why are you looking at me?

Stop it. I hate it. I hate your magnificent cocoa-honey eyes, and your supple lashes. "I'm Shouyou," says you, with such arrogance that only the largest planet in the solar system could have. Oh, how you'll cry and cry once you realise what you've done. You freakish imp, you cross boy, you -  _ you! _

"Ushijima Wakatoshi," I hiss. My mother, who is a great defendant of the son of her  _ husband's mistress _ , grips my wrist with those uniquely [a better word for  _ sadistically crafted _ ] long nails and I grit my teeth and shake.  _ How dare she - does she not see the boy _ ? Does she not see your impish oddities, and why does she not scowl at your very essence! You, who ruined her entirely, who ruined  _ me  _ entirely!

Sick, you're sick. You're ill. You must have a fever. Shall we go take you to Cassandra, the seer of the gods? Surely she must have a cure for you sunny idiocy! You prosperous idiot!

I shall not waste your time, courteous jury, with my unsightly layers of thick hatred. But in summary it's exactly what I have previously stated: a boy, whose fault is his entire existence, has made himself known in the string of threads I have connected to me. 

He's not made of nightmares, nor is he made out of dreams; he's a reality that has been thrust unto me and a reality I viciously want to refuse. 

And to be crass, in the crassest ways of all: fuck you, Hinata Shouyou. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


13th April, 2005. Dear diary of my incapacitated mind, I think I must be going sick. I'm turning green, really, I can feel bile running up and down my throat. It's awful, it really is. I feel feverish. I'm teeming with flu symptoms and I feel  _ horrid. I'm  _ telling you, it's because of the boy sitting across me. 

Sick, stupid little Shouyou is one week into his stay at  _ my  _ generous hand, in  _ my  _ brilliant household and to think that I will ashamedly confess: he's a pretty thing. Prettier than most of the girls in my school, and much better looking than whatever Tendou thinks he looks like. I choose to blame it on my pubescent body, for what else could it be?  _ Sheer, unbridled attraction?  _ Fear not, Toshi [me, myself and I], there is no real consequence to confessing my slight infatuation with my lovely, ill brother.

I shouldn't be surprised, really. My father chased after only the most charming women, with bright looks and slim curves. To think  _ her  _ son would adopt her qualities should have come with no surprise, none at all. And to think that he is so daintily divine [I myself want to shoot a bullet into my brain just thinking about it] has deprived me of any sympathy for myself. 

Perhaps his shamelessness has grown on me, enough to make me notice his dashing features and grown out curls.  _ No, no _ , I must be gross, and I must be delirious. For starters, he's my brother [who I have only known for seven days and who looks nothing at all like me or  _ my  _ family], but the most important argument: he has ruined my life. Only idiots lust after their sworn enemy, [only father lusts after cute girls and guys and all the rest]. 

"Can I have some?" asks little Sho, who's pointing at my stack of pancakes. And I say yes, because who am I to refuse the tiny, goblin who stands at least two rulers beneath me. 

It makes me nauseous, to think that I find him attractive or that I even consider anything less than a foe. Perhaps hate might translate to disgust, and disgust to confusion, and confusion to attraction. No, not quite. I must add that Shouyou is a fragile thing, with skinny wrists and tiny ankles. It wouldn't be hard to abuse him in his sleep, and an inkling of the sick idea roots itself in my head. 

Truthfully, I wouldn't dare touch  _ anyone _ , even if it was  _ Shouyou _ , while they were unconscious. I think I've been raised better than that — I'm not a case of complete moral leprosy. But one must think of the possibilities with their muse, their Galatean goddess. And along the coast of sweet Cyprus, he is a sight to behold, a sight worth the years to come. And who are you to destroy the deep, sick thoughts kept in the cupboard in the basement of my brain? 

But I have to confess, even if it is hard for myself, that if it was alright, and if there were no consequences [not a single one]: I'd slip in a pill or two in his juice and thrust into him all night. Now I can hear you: Wakatoshi, you disgusting freak! You incandescent evil! You atrocious maniac, you perverse palanquin! And I understand your worries, dear listener, I do. But I'm like any other person: filled with my own inner, unholy desires. Is it so,  _ so  _ wrong to have a fantasy? I'd never act on it, truly. I promise you this.

In my head, however, he is locked away, and mine to profusely abuse and relinquish and regain and break. I must sound like a psychotic maniac, but I swear to you, I've never been better. It's a matter of fiction and reality; of fantasy and materiality; whims and dreams and awkward breakfasts and dinners. Shouyou, much like the scorching summers I've spent fishing and playing with my beloved, dearest Dad, are nothing but melodies sung and hummed in the barest corners of my head. 

Damsel lashes at the cusp of an eyelid, a brooding crease on his lid, tamed golden-brown freckles on his rusty, blushed cheeks. That is all I can think about [that and the sheer  _ horror  _ of being attracted to my ten-year-old brother]. Sleep, bird of mine. Hollow, barking, pup. Sorrowful swan of the lakes and the sea. Quaint kitty atop a sturdy wall. Sleep and sleep your nights away, as I imagine dipping my toe into the corner that defines all that is joy and loneliness beyond comparison, creeping near your brand new linen sheets, and gasping silently as my hand rises above the hem of your shirt. 

Softly snoring away, you feverishly turn red as my hand palms the curve of your miniature, obscure phallism. I, too, might draw my own disgusting object closer to the heel of your jaw and take a cute slap at those puffy, pernicious cheeks. I might even ejaculate that night, all over your revolting face. Just to embarrass you as you wake up stiff and hot. 

Ah, I sound like a pervert. 

  
  
  
  


I look at Shouyou for a bit and I ask, "Do you know how you were made?"

_ No I don't.  _

_ Do you want to know? _

_ No, thank you, Ushijima-kun _ .

Perhaps this dunce isn't as slow as I thought. He's catching on to the truth, and his face contorts into disappointment. He can tell, can't he? That's he not supposed to exist. If only, dear Shouyou, you had been born later, to another father, in another land, and by a fateful chance that we met as adults [most likely in a bar of sorts], my hands would have raucously roamed around your sublime bodice, and I would have unfolded you, all of you. Without a single bite of shame. 

He walks around precociously in hot, tight shorts, not erotic in concept, but erotic on his small buttocks and slipped in between the crevice of his mounts. I can see the small shape of a nipple poking through the sheer material of his cheap sports singlet, a sign of his poverty. And to Shouyou: you excite me, you  _ must _ excite me. For you're a stunning fox, a cruel deity, and a hateful lover. 

Is it so wrong to lust after Shouyou?

Especially considering our familial dynamic, and knowing that you, like me, have nothing left. You, who has left his own mother back in whichever run down town, who has not a single friend, and whose new parents won't be seeing you for a  _ while.  _

There's no one but us, Shouyou. It has occurred to me in a matter of seconds: we are truly alone in the world. Perhaps it had entered the suburbs of my mind months ago, but for the first time, I must acknowledge the sinking feeling of my bones. If only to spite you, Shouyou. We aren't so different, you and I. Aside from the fact that you chose this desperate life of loneliness, we are one in the same. Us, lonely lackey children, abandoned by the ones who we were told to give us joy. 

Us. At first it had been me, a small boy vulnerable to the existing forces of the cruel world — and then there is you, who has been the very reason for my loneliness, who has been thrust into the very same, breathlessly violent world. I'm unlucky beyond logic, aren't I? For the only other lonely person in the world to be  _ you _ . 

I shall go on a mini tangent here: my parents, as awful as they are, left me alone with as much freedom as a full grown thirty-year-old [excluding a driver's license] — what did I do with said unlimited freedom? Wallow in my own sea of self-pity, of course. And Shouyou contributed to it a lot, might I add. I was alone, without a single soul left in the world to grasp onto, because of  _ you _ , darling Ma and Pa. Am I even angry with Shouyou? Or am I angry with what he represents?

No matter, it's the fury that counts. I'm a lonely, havoc-wrecked, stress induced, comatic boy, and to be quite frank, I wouldn't mind dancing myself of a musty cliff just to rid myself of the empty gratitude that has magnified itself in the lining of my stomach. 

  
  
  
  


And for the next decade of soulless summers, we shall be together. In our very own lonely paradise. 

  
  
  
  
  


My epiphany keeps haunting me, for the fact that it's right and how unjustly right it is. Why, why is it so damning? To be alone with hot, demure Shouyou? To be alone with my  _ justicia _ ? And for the matter that I am alone, I am alone and this must be a sickening disease for which there is no palatable cure. 

Doctor Simmons! Nurse Victoria! Come, please I'm ill and I'm dying soon! It's a barren life, it is. Only thirteen and I have the universe's weight on my broad shoulders! My life is: dare I say, poetically evil? A play put on for the many eyes of the ghouls among the shadows! How evil, how inhumane, how sickening and what sort of theatrical show is this? And my, what a distasteful and bland audience. 

Perhaps it's the loneliness that's causing my unhinged catastrophe. I must be going mad. It's as the shrinks of modern television say: isolation is man's greatest nemesis. And indeed, it's pulling me apart slowly and torturously. 

As I’m being treated and torn like a scrambling of raw meat, it’s somewhat comforting to know that in the cold loneliness of my being, there’s someone else as ruined as I. He might be a gross and downy darling, but we’re stuck in this painful apartment together.  _ And they were roommates _ , you might think or say. He’s my monstrous angel, and the only real person who could possibly understand this unhinged feeling.

It’s a yearning for something more that sickens me; a yearning for someone like me, and a crass need for a body to lie against. A warmth that is unexplainable, a desperate attempt to rewrite an old story. A father, a mother, someone to confess my daily brigade to, someone who may be able to consume the fire that has set my world up in flames. It must sound surreal and vulgar but there is no other way to describe this inescapable feeling that is nestled in the depths of soul. I’m irrevocably hopeful, and for what? 

Someone. Something. Anything or anyone to extinguish this dramatic, emboldened brashness in my heart. I’m hot and repressed. I’m incurable and running a fever. I’m hopelessly in need of a cure. You must - and I mean you must, you must, you  _ must  _ \- understand that if you were me, if you were empty and you were on fire, if you were missing something, if you were a thrown away parcel, an abandoned parlour shop, you would seek the help you needed. 

And perhaps my cure is to commit an act of moral leprosy, to cozy up against my dear brother, and to roam my hands around his prepubescent body. I might fondle his thin limbs, but if only to help myself. If he hadn’t poured alcohol on my flames, I might never have ever had these gross thoughts. It is all to rid myself of my sickness. Don’t you dare accuse me of general cruelty, I’m not like those vulgar beasts prowling at half-dressed women on the streets. I’m a scholarly boy, with his own pukish fetishes. 

He has conquered the scope of my brainiac conscious - and I see orange. And for the first time, it’s the same orange as the sunlit mornings with soft clouds of pink and vibrant yellow. It’s the sunrise reflecting in my eyes - and the flames are no more. No hint of dangerous apricot or a glowing citrus. There are no capital buildings rolling down the streets. For all I can see now is the magnificent sunrise that Tokyo is known for. 

In plaintiff terms, for the modern reader/thinker: there is no one else for a boy like me to love. No one I could possibly wrap my arms around or daintily coo at, no one who relates to my melancholy. And he may be my brother, but he’s also the only person in the world who could even diagnose my disease. 

My doctor, my medicine, my Shouyou. Sunrise and sunset, Shouyou.

  
  
  


In the midst of July, you came sobbing to me in the night, you were tormented and hurt. And I was your salvation. Your cheeks were flushed and your eyelashes were curled with sorrow and despair. And I could see it then that you had found out just  _ how sick  _ our world was. 

Shouyou had discovered something sinister about his father, and he was in great need of a shoulder to cry on. How fortunate it was, that he had an older brother who was brimming with empathy. I watched you crash into my room, dashing and hurling yourself towards me, as you spat out all the injustices of all our world. You were small, smaller than usual in my wide arms and you were choking with grievances. 

" _ Wanna go home _ ," you gasped, kneeling on the floor as I looked down from my bed to see a boyish figure sobbing.  _ "Wanna go home, wanna go home, take me home _ !"

And I asked cluelessly: "This is your home, Shou."

"No, no, n-no," said the little orange. "I miss my ma, I don't wanna be here." 

I remembered that you had just met father. My sweet darling, you must have been disappointed. Our father is a cowardly moron, whose only talent lay in impregnating whores from all over the nation. 

Miss your ma, miss her, Shouyou, but she clearly does not miss you. Perhaps my interpretation of your quaint little filialship is wrong, but a mother who had sent her child to live with some man she hadn't seen in years was not an ideal mother. And  _ believe me _ , honey child, I am more than aware of how a poor mother looks.

"You can't go back, Shouyou," I said rationally and you started to fist my blankets furiously as you let out violent refusals. "Stop it, [said Wakatoshi, kindly and gently towards his small brother] you can't go home now." He couldn't. And he wouldn't.

"Why not, huh? I can buy an airplane ticket and I can leave!" How was I supposed to explain the laws of child rearing to a ten-year-old? 

You wanted to go so desperately, I was sure that you were determined enough to jump out my window and fly away. And kind big brother Wakatoshi could not let that happen. Was it selfish to want you here, to hinder your growth, to keep my caged honey boy right where he was supposed to be? But one must admit, a child like me might deserve to be selfish; as a child of moral contamination to another, don't we all deserve to be less than altruistic beings?

"What happened? Was Father being rude?" I found it somewhat irritating, to see you sniffle and sob over such a reckless, remote man. A man who had tormented me for years and not once had I shed a single tear. I suppressed the urge to tell you to suck it up, thankfully. 

"N-no," you sniffled, and I passed you a tissue box. "It's just w- _ weird _ around him and he was all scared and stuff and I don't know why he's scared, is there anything to be scared of here, Toshi?" 

You were simply brimming with excitement the moment you arrived, and you were so ready to cozy up to your life in Tokyo. It must have been a cultural shock, to know that Tokyo was in fact, quite similar to your garbage hometown. "There's always gonna be something to be scared of," I told you, and you crawled into my arms as if it was your only chance left at surviving this imputent city. 

_ Darling _ , venus child, prose divinic, all you would ever need would be me, all you could ever allow is me, my words are muddled up and so is my cognac mind, for all I could ever breathe is  _ Shouyou, Shouyou, Shouyou. _

"But we have money now, we don't have to be scared, what's there to be scared of?" 

Scared of me, perhaps. 

"It's okay to be afraid, y'know," I said, in a sort of condescending yet comforting tone. I didn't understand what you were babbling on about, and nor did I care, but I would have liked to keep you within arm's length. I simply had to own you, I had to ensnare you, and finally, I had to love you.

"No, no," Shouyou cried, gripping tightly onto my sleeve. He looked so hopeless, and  _ so easy.  _ It wouldn't have been hard to steal away his first, and torture him keenly. "Toshi, I don't wanna be afraid, I don't wanna, don't wanna!" 

And poor you, poor ginger you, I held you gently as you continued to sob and let out those guttural gasps and impossible cries. "I'm here, Shou," I whispered slowly. "I'm not afraid of anything."

Shouyou stared hard and it seemed like you didn't believe a single word that was coming out of my mouth. How could I blame you? I played volleyball, I wasn't a theatrical impotent. 

"I'm serious," I said in a most solemn tone. And thank god that you were a gullible little child, for you gobbled my words up and further lay your head in my lap. "If you don't want to be afraid, then I suppose we won't be afraid."

"I don't get you sometimes, Toshi," Shouyou said softly, but I had noticed that he wasn't as stiff as before. He was intangibly comforted by my presence and I allowed him to be. 

"You don't have to," I pressed a kiss on your forehead. "I'm  _ here _ , and there's  _ nothing  _ to be afraid of."

And there was nothing at all. For what I had seen when I was nine, when the solitude was so impossibly near, you had fallen, and you ensured this entanglement of courage and stability. 

"You promise?"

I promised him so, as long he promised to never leave my side. "Only if you swear that you'll stay."

"Why would I ever leave you, Toshi?"

_ "Promise _ ."

"I promise!"

"Good job, Shou," I encouraged, and we were officially living in our globe of trembling disparity and cozy conversations.

"I love you, nii-chan."

And I said it back. I said it over and over and I'll say it for the next century or so.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


I will never touch a ten-year-old, because that’s a line I will never cross. But eleven-years-old is a totally different kind of ball game. At eleven, a boy [and I was eleven once] becomes different. He changes. His scent goes from milky babyness and frothy root beer to musky [still milky and clean] and thick. His hips start narrowing and his chest widens by bare millimeters, and his face becomes redder than ever. His cock enlarges bit by bit, and the very curve of a circumcised manhood becomes more apparent.

At eleven, boys start to shed some of their innocence. And it’s best to strike the iron while it’s hot, I coo silently. Shouyou, who is the naievest and densest little stippling I’ve ever seen, is teeming with erotic innocence at the barren age of eleven and it’s as titallating as any magazine starlet dressed in sheer satin and roses. I hope you won’t confuse me with a beastly predator lurking in alleyways, because I’ve never felt this way towards another child, or another boy. Shouyou has turned me into a different man [fourteen is just slipping it] and a different being. 

He’s a sweet brother, and so am I [“Toshi-nii! Let’s go to the mall!”], I’m gentle with his fragile little body, and I kiss away all his bruises and I chase away all his suitors [especially that Kageyama boy, who’s awfully handsy]. I’m a loving brother. And I do feel a sense of disgust whenever I feel my crotch grazes and burns as he sucks on a popsicle, or whines for childish totteries. We might have been true brothers, had I not been exposed to sex. 

I might have touched him without any ill intent if I had no prior knowledge of such carnal activities. Perhaps I might have loved him all the same, forgetting the erotica nonsense and loving him with the loneliness and artfulness of a good companion. I wish to forget about my own fetish, and ignore his tempting agility. Shouyou is a cute, capricious, coddling child. And he doesn’t need a lusty fool for a brother. He already has one for a father. 

I do believe that my hatred for my father is forcing me to forsake all these devilish activities. I do, I truly do, want to care for darling Shouyou, who is my younger brother of all things and I have spent quite a content year with. Him and I, eating warm[ish] meals together, walking to and fro school and such, letting him tag along to quaint volleyball matches. And I feel sick for wanting to spoil him with my unjust lust and selfish priorities. 

Shouyou - my cursive, irrevocably downy darling. I’m sorry, because I’m unable to refuse you. Even in my dreams, when I wake up soaked in sweat and my briefs are stained with strains of bodily fluids, I simply need you, And more than anything else, I’ve cursed myself to love you, in any and every way.

It’s madness. It’s insane to think that in a course of a year, you’ve threatened me with your salacious and lovely wiles, and to think that I’ve succumbed to them! You, a tiny eleven year old who can barely tie his laces! You have managed to seduce me and trick me into  _ wanting  _ you. I must be going mad, because that’s absurd! You have no power over me, no seniority over me. 

This is one of your tricks, you mischievous snake! 

And no, I’m not in the least bit attracted to you.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


I touched him. I touched him, I slid my hot _thing_ between his mounds and I ruined him. I fondled him in all the most inappropriate ways and I left him bruised and battered with me and all such traces of my own essence. 

And he still slept soundly, even as I cried into the curds of orange. 

  
  
  
  
  


See, how should I explain the aforementioned thoughts and obvious and  _ disturbing  _ implications? I think I should start off with: no, I didn't  _ rape  _ my little brother in his sleep, he was perfectly aware of the fact that I had been busy calming down my cock using his buttocks. It was consensual. It was. 

"Shou, do you know what sex is?"

And so I asked this quite hesitantly, for I had to build up much courage to even utter such a vulgarity around innocent, blinding Shou. Perhaps if he had said yes, I wouldn't have lapped him up and taken him whole, but he was a cute boy and I was an angsty homemaker. 

To touch you, to fondle your girlish hips and kiss your monkeyish toes! I'd give anything to lock you up in a pearlish oyster, my Aphroditian humus, or to nip at the freckles on your entire body! Let me in, unlock your lively doors, and let me drink in that ever memorable scent of apricot jam and freshly baked bread. 

My daffodil wet dream, my capricious, comely, Corinthian debutant. I'm not a perverse boy, I'm a lovesick fool! Lucentio begone, Bianca-Shouyou, you're mine, and I shall be yours. 

"I dunno, just heard Tsukki and Yamayama talking about it in school today. When I asked what it was, they just laughed at me and stuff!"

Foolish liaison. It's alright, little one, I shall teach you all the things you don't know, I'll touch you till you forget the feeling of ever being alone. I'll educate you, because I'm a good brother, I'll show you every step of how to fill yourself up. 

"Would you like to know what sex is?"

_ Toshi-nii. Toshi-nii.  _ You call for me in a blank slate, and I'm unsure of how to respond. I think about how you might scream my name till your voice goes hoarse as I bring you to prepubescent orgasms for hours on end. The way I've phrased that is absolutely foul and I apologise for my tastelessness but I am just  _ teeming  _ with excitement! 

"Uh-huh."

He nods and so I tell him, as gently as possible, "Lay on your back, Shou." And as obedient as he's been for the past year or so, he does exactly that. And the supple curve of his lean back is infuriatingly erotic, as his bottom is raised higher and I see the smooth arc of his lasvicious limbs. 

It’s the first time I’ve actually done anything remotely perverse. I’ve never even kissed someone, and to think that I’m this eager to defile my sweet brother - well, my damsel, my tentative, my fawning boylet, it shall be  _ our  _ first time! And doesn’t that sound brilliant?

“Toshi-nii,” he whined and he looked at me, as I made my way to the curve of his bosom. “That’s my butt!” He squirms in the cusp of my hands, and he looks like the smallest thing. From the stretch of my thumb to the rim of my pinky, he is so impossibly tiny. The three years between us has defined our entire dynamic - Shou, my soft, slavelike lover, and Toshi, tall and dominant pervert. 

"I know," I whispered. He tensed up slightly, before calming down. 

"Yamayama says it's weird if someone touches your bum bum," he musters. Always about that stupid boy, Yamayama, Bakageyama, Tobio, Toby, and all such stupid nicknames that happened to be swept under the sea. 

"No, Shou, I'm your brother. It's ok if I do it," Ardor spoke with great lust and intensity. And my hand slips underneath the elastic strap of his boxers, and I take my time to feel the soft mounds resting underneath me. 

"Feels weird," he hums absent-mindedly as I stroke the lexus of his testicular organs. He wriggles uncomfortably — I start to strip him of his trousers. 

"Why do I have to be naked?" stammers Shouyou, who is desperately clinging to his waistless clothes. 

"Calm down, Shou, it's _fine_ ," I reply harshly. Shouyou, you must understand, I am not trying to take advantage of your naivety or hurt you, but you are being such a _difficult_ _boy._

Shouyou, why won't you come undone in your big brother's arms? I'm your one and only, your happy ending, and the only person who will ever understand the boiling loneliness that's festering in you. Give all of yourself to me, sunny Shou. Don't you want to be understood? Confess—confess your depravities to  _ me _ , because I might [I  _ am _ ] be the only person who will accept you for who you are! You bastardized maniac—let me hold you, and brand you, and kiss you all over. 

Please, please  _ please please please _ , you are everything, and there is nothing else but you! You and I, I and you, us forever and together, and mated with each other for life! "Shou, stop  _ squirming _ , [and he teasingly thrashed around some more] be a good boy, for  _ Toshi-nii! _ " 

"Toshi, T _ oshi _ ! What are you doing?"

Now how was I to explain to him the explicitly sexual nature of my actions? 

"It'll feel good, stop  _ squirming _ ," I rasped. He retorts something unintelligible and I finish undoing his trousers and I get to feast my eyes on his perturbed bottom and his red, flaccid debri. It's small and ever so slightly curved, his tip uncircumcised and pink. It's an impossibly stunning phallic symbol. 

" _ Hh!"  _ he groans, as I start to fist his small cock. "Toshi-nii, it's  _ weird _ , that feels so—ah!" He turns around listlessly, and looks at me solemnly. "Toshi-nii,  _ stop _ , I [and he frowns for a moment as I squeeze the base of his petite boyhood—he hums softly]  _ what are you doing _ ?"

By now, one must presume that he has caught on to my sexual misconduct. But never fear, I don't doubt Shouyou's intellect [or lack thereof]. So I cozy up, and I whisper huskily [much to his discontent], "Doesn't it feel good, Shou?" I give his growing erection a nice and good squeeze, and he shoots out spasms of pre-cum into the cusp of my palm. 

"D-dunno," he hesitates, and it's good to really  _ show _ your Shouyou how one [Wakatoshi] might drill the pleasure into him. "T-toshi! Mmf [by now, he's buried his head into his pillow] It feels—hahh—good! Feels good!"

It is that easy to get your Shouyou to submit to you. 

"How good?" My ego needs a boosting, and one by pretty and precocious Shouyou. 

So I feel him up, and I drag my other hand around his back and briefs, and I slowly, but surely, make my soft snakish honey tremble with excitement. 

"It's okay, I guess— _ hh— _ it kind of hurts _ ,"  _ he lets out a guttural moan as I proceed to pump his little cocklet up and down. I grip his swollen boyhood and it feels so silky smooth and small in my palm. It's as tiny as Shouyou himself, and as cute as a kitten. 

"It's good, it's good," he pants. His first time engaging in anything remotely sexual—and it's with his own brother no less! This must be the karmic justice that I've been longing for! Shouyou, you mustn't be fooled: I poisoned you with love and I have alas struck  _ back _ . 

My brave boy heaves and squirms, but of course his weak, childish body is no match for my pubescent approach. See Shouyou, you mustn't go against your older brother; respect your seniors and you shall receive gifts of many. Case in point, your first orgasm. 

"Something's coming,  _ something's coming," _ he huffs, releasing himself all over my palm. I stretch my fingers out, and strings of warm liquid hang from the tip of my thumb to the sphincter of my pinky. 

Shouyou lays on the bed, and he doesn't move. He's fallen asleep. A (my lust for you) has led to B (our first sexual experience) which has indeed led to C (how I am about to lease you of your virginity). And here begins the real adventure: I draw out my cure pinely cock and I gently rouse you (you don’t wake up, of course). I push you into the comfort of your own pillow - you snore lightly - and your rump is pointed to me.

“Soft, soft… Shouyou,” hums Wakatoshi as he reaches for the pale shades of fat flesh. I grossly grab and grope all that I can find, and all that is mine. His squishy mounds flow into the palm of my soul and look,  _ look my sweet boy,  _ I’ve gone erect! It’s too bad you’ve fallen asleep. 

I’ve only gotten hard a handful of times: the first when I first hit puberty, and it was a physiological response to my own growth, the second when Tendou brought over magazine that was filled with obscene images, the third was when I found out what porn was (and my father’s sick stash of it). He had a vast collection of gay pornography, and of the many DVDs, the one that had caught my eye was one of a toned, celibate monk and a slim man dressed as a priest. 

You are, of course the exception. And here's the exciting part: I line my own fallacy up against your cute crevice and start, as all teenage boys do, thrusting victoriously into some unknown abyss. Within the modest voluminous of your bosom, I find a part of myself that I have forgotten I have been searching for. Your supple skin against my hard erection — and there am I, hurtling towards with the intent to indulge myself completely. 

"Shouyou, doesn't it feel nice?" I grunt, and silence greets me. Soundly and soft, tiny and mounted, sorry Shouyou, but I must try and forgive myself. 

I rut and rut and rut, and there is no reply, you don't even  _ flinch.  _ Am I hurting you? I might never know, baby of mine. No response, and I might as well be fucking a doll. I thrust my hips, all while grinding myself against the friction and firmness of your youthful bottom. You stay as quiet as ever, and you don't do so much as hum out a single line of complaint. I wish you would just click your tongue or something. 

Perhaps the silence isn't as bad as I'm making it out to be — at least in this state, you're all mine. Nothing will ever tear us apart, not as I hover over your sleeping body and make it mine. I fondle your body, groping the slenderness of shoulders, the drunken fairy-like body that lies beneath me. The world is made of you and me, with the fleeting flowers of our very own eden-like garden. 

Stay like this, sombre and silent. Sometimes when I see you with Kageyama,  _ and I'm going to be very honest here _ , I wish you were dead. Death is a  _ decision _ , a universal, colossal, billowing decision, and you'd be mine for time itself. And in a sick part of my mind, I'd never be lonely again.

Despite this, I enjoy your presence, your bubbling giggles and all the incessant nonsense that spills from your mouth. I hope that we might be lucky enough to die together. Even in death, nothing could stop us, Shouyou. It took me a while to understand, but the truth was clear to me from the start: it was us, we  _ are  _ the answer. Us — Shouyou, us against the big bad world, against the sick principalities of our reality!

I kiss you, I kiss the acres of your hollow abode and I mark the spots with love. My thoughts are becoming musty, and the image of my forced future becomes blurrier, and you've turned me into a fool, a fool whose guided by loneliness and all that follows — for this is all I have left, nothing less, and nothing more. 

Your skin, dewy and clear and smooth and pandering! You, soft child of my dreams, innocent doe, dilapidated dynasty, you are the orchestra of my symphonic dreams! I caress you, gently and deeply and you unknowingly massage me back. All those knots, those deep bundles of rotten nerves,  _ gone _ !

"I love you," I whisper, and I wonder if you can hear me.

  
  
  
  


"You're awfully quiet this morning, Shouyou," I hum as a small boy sits vacuously in front of me. His plate is full and his eyes are searching for something, it seems. "Aren't you going to finish your food?" I raise an eyebrow at the boy. 

He shakes his head timidly, the lamblike little thing. "Is this about yesterday, Shouyou?" I ponder, and I half-expect him to get up and leave. 

If it is, oh how I would like to know how my sweet boy feels, because I can't get the sight of you ejaculating into my palm out of my mind. It must have been your first orgasm, and I've taken it. It fills me up, you know, it's as if an odd pang in my tummy has been satiated and I'm fuller than a farm animal. 

Instead he nods and replies, "It felt weird… and tingly…" I touched you last night, I touched you all over and there are some parts that you may not remember, but  _ I  _ certainly do. I fondled your buxom, and I thrusted my cock in between your peachy anchors and you didn't let out a single sound. You are an impenetrably cute boy, and it does satisfy me to know that I'm going to ruin you for anyone else. 

"Did you hate it?" I wouldn't mind if you did, because last night, I tasted something, something forbidden and sacred. Something that I won't be able to forget, and something so insanely precious. And as of now, I doubt if I'll be able to stop myself from taking another vicious bite. And it's not like you'd be able to stop me either . 

"Dunno," he murmurs, fiddling with his fork and sipping his odd coloured cup. "Are brothers supposed to do that kind of thing?"

"I'm gonna be frank with you, Shou. Socially, incest isn't widely accepted, but as long as we're in private, it's fine," I respond cautiously. 

"Oh," he seems relieved. 

"Do you want to do it again?"

He shrugs again, but this time he strokes my foot lightly. I can't tell if it's accidental or on purpose. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as usual, this chap is teeming with nabokov refs. im gonna be honest lolita is my comofrt book and ive been wanting to read ada or ardor?? ive been getting into rick and morty guys and rick sanchez is sexy somehow conventionally sexy vball boys dont get me going but shitty old man makes me go wapppy anyway comment plz it makes my heart go doki doki


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